Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
by TrenchcoatWarrior67
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester have dealt with more than their fair share of crazy. With Sam starting high school, and Dean ready to give up on all that "higher education" crap, they'd really appreciate a break. Of course, with Dad around they know better than to whine and bemoan their current situation. Follow Sam and Dean as they Winchester their way through, one painful day at a time.
1. Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

1\. Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

* * *

 **Sam and Dean Winchester have dealt with more than their fair share of utter bullshit. With Sam starting high school, and Dean ready to give up on all that "higher education" crap, they'd really appreciate a break. Of course, with Dad around they know better than to whine and bemoan their current situation.**

 **Just when things start to wind down - a lull in cases allowing for the small family to stay in one place for the remainder of the school year - a new threat arises that threatens the serenity the brothers have been enjoying thus far.**

 **Will Dean and Sam power through like they always had, taking the backseat and letting their father take charge? Or will they be forced to work alone, dragged into positions of authority neither are prepared to shoulder?**

 **Follow Sam and Dean as they Winchester their way through, one agonizing day, hour, minute, second at a time.**

 **If there's one thing Dean's learned after all these years, it's that people are just plain crazy.**

 **DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all it entails most certainly do NOT belong to me. Carry on.**

* * *

Dean Winchester was nothing if not a strong individual. Stubborn as hell and not afraid to prove it, Dean had always been firm in his beliefs and unchangeable in his opinions, oftentimes resulting in heated debates with Sam, his (giant) little brother. Although, if there were one break from the routine, one thing they both agreed on wholeheartedly, no questions asked, it was the words Dean happened to mutter on the chilly November evening our nightmare begins.

* * *

"People are _crazy_."

Eighteen-year-old Dean Winchester slammed the trunk of his precious '67 Impala and immediately winced at the loud, angry sound. Murmuring automatic apologies under his breath, he sidled around the driver's side and slid into the seat just as another body flopped in through the passenger side.

"Can't argue with that."

Dean glanced over in time to catch Sam's disgruntled expression before it fell into exhaustion. At not-quite-fifteen, Sam was in his freshman year at the local high school, quickly (and alarmingly) approaching Dean's height, and actively participating in hunts - something Dean was grateful for, if not worried about, because Sam's sass-tastic attitude was a formidable weapon all on its own.

"You okay there, kiddo? Don't get too cranky on me now, I know it's past your nap time."

One withering bitch face later and the two Winchesters were back on the road.

* * *

As they drove, Sam reflected on the hunt they'd just finished up and Dean's oh-so-predictable response.

It wasn't one of their usual gigs, a restless spirit here or a few werewolves there. No, this case was distinctly _Homo sapiens_ and incredibly unnerving, even by their standards.

Their dad had been a day's drive downstate, tailing a particularly nasty wendigo, when Sam and Dean stumbled - literally - into the middle of the case.

At this point Sam wondered if that had really been such a bad thing after all.

When the two of them had pulled up to the local library a few days earlier, the last thing they expected was to be ambushed in the psychology section.

Undeniably a strategic kidnapping location - it was a rather sad collection shoved towards the back, and who really wants to browse a shelf filled with faults and self-loathing? - Sam was still cursing himself for being caught off guard as he had. Dean, of course, had opted to wait back at the table, so Sam had nobody to blame but himself. And his kidnappers, but really, that one was a given.

Subdued by several large men, Sam had been unable to prevent the extraction of his cellphone from an outer pocket and the subsequent text to Dean to 'get over here and look at the lead I found'. This made it quite obvious to Sam that he and Dean had been targeted specifically, and of course did nothing else by way of information.

That was about when Dean rounded the corner and near-silent (still a library) hell broke loose.

Another thing Sam blamed himself for: their dual kidnapping. He knew without a doubt that if there had been no threat to his safety by the psycho-thugs, Dean never would've allowed himself to be restrained or forcibly taken.

Just his luck to land them in the middle of a case that was:  
a) out of their jurisdiction as hunters  
b) catered specifically to their weaknesses  
and  
c) completely unknown to them up until the actual kidnapping took place

Damn Winchester luck.

Sam heaved a sigh as he came back to the present. He had been unseeingly admiring the passing cornfields and herds of cattle when he became aware of what had awakened him from his musings.

 _...Until the sandman he comes..._

Sam raised an eyebrow and glanced over at Dean, rocking out obliviously behind the wheel.

 _...Sleep with one eye open...Gripping your pillow tight..._

"...is this 'Enter Sandman'?"

Dean continued to sing with the chorus. Loudly.

"Exit LIGHT! Enter NIIIIIGHT! Take my haaaaand, we're off to never-"

"DEAN!"

"-never-land! What, Sammy? Oh. Oh, yeah, little lullaby for Mr. Angst-ridden Barely Teen over there." He threw a smirk Sam's way that gained him a new level of eye-rolling sass.

"I think that's a new record, you almost got a full 360 that time."

"Yeah, sure."

And Sam returned to his blind viewings.

* * *

Dean for the life of him just _could not_ understand what the hell those sons-a-bitches had been thinking. It was bothering Sammy, too, he could tell. There was a difference between Sam's 'teenage brooding' stare and his 'pissed-at-dad' stare, and Dean knew this one was most definitely a 'deep, troubled thinking' stare.

He'd tried to lighten the mood with a little Metallica - because really, who doesn't like a little "Sandman" every once in a while? - but that had obviously crashed and burned.

Not that he'd expected anything otherwise.

That just led to his own private inquiry, and the endless road provided a perfect sort of monotony to plaster his thoughts over.

After the embarrassment at the library (seriously though, what the hell?), two of the psychopaths manhandled Sam and Dean back to the Impala and forced them - hog tied, no less - into the back. Already furious at their rough treatment of Sam - _his_ Sammy - Dean was about ready to blow a gasket when Neurotic Number One got behind the wheel, and he was willing to bet he started foaming at the mouth when Neurotic Number Two squeezed into the passenger seat and rested his mud-and-who-knows-what-else-encrusted boots on the dash.

Nobody, not even Sam with his freakishly long, hard to maneuver giraffe legs, disrespected his baby like that and got away with all of their limbs still intact. Or attached.

After a much needed punch to the shoulder by Sam, Dean regained enough awareness to realize Neurotic Numbers Three, Four, and Five had climbed into an old rust bucket of a pickup and were leading the bastards driving the Impala out of the parking lot and toward the highway.

An endless supply of cows, corn, and crippling boredom later, and the boys found themselves being carried into an abandoned farmhouse like sacks of flour. Or salt, in their case.

Thrown unceremoniously onto the floor, Dean prepared himself for a fight even as he struggled to position himself protectively in front of Sam.

He was almost offended - and by the affronted look on Sam's face, he was too - when they were dutifully ignored.

Dean had the ridiculous urge to call out to them - yell, demand answers, insult them and their mothers - but a quick (and lethal) look from Sam made the words die in his throat. Maybe in this instance he could afford to 'watch and learn'.

What they did learn, after a day or so of infuriating obedience, was:  
1\. Neurotic Number One, who had committed the sacrilegious act of commandeering the Impala, was named 'Gus'  
2\. Neurotic Number Two, whose appendages now had an expiration date, was named 'Cliff' and seemed to be in charge of the idiots  
3\. Neurotic Numbers Three, Four, and Five were called 'Red', 'Tuck', and 'Harley' respectively  
4\. They didn't seem to care a whole lot about the two of them, which made no sense whatsoever  
5\. They kept ranting about someone they referred to as 'that cowardly bastard', who seemed to be their main target  
6\. The lot of them were most likely Hunters, even though they obviously sucked at their job

None of this was comforting to Dean (except maybe the 'appendages with expiration dates' part), and he couldn't help but wonder who this 'cowardly bastard' was and whether he should thank him for so thoroughly pissing off the psycho crew.

Sometime on the second day, Dean remembered waking to Sam's gangly, tangled limbs in his field of vision, only to be roughly hauled to his feet a moment after they came into focus. He had been questioned for hours, during which Sam also woke and arranged his face into some sort of bitchy fury that had not changed throughout the interrogation. The only question asked, repeated over and over and over, was 'where is your father?'

At some point that had morphed into 'where is that bastard?', which answered some of Sam and Dean's questions, but ultimately ended up just creating more.

When that was over, the two had been left to their own, limited, devices. Which, of course, was Mistake Number One.

Red and Harley were in the process of petitioning Cliff to get dinner before anything else was done, while Gus and Tuck thought they should use one of the boys' cellphones to use them as leverage towards John. It was easy to see which would win out, but the idiots never got the chance, seeing as Dean and Sam had quite easily cut through their bonds and snuck out the back - with the phones, leaving them within reach was Mistake Number Two - before they had made up their minds.

A mad dash to the Impala, slamming doors, and the beauty of squealing tires later, and nothing was left of the Winchester brothers but the scent of burning rubber and near-tangible derision.

Leaving the keys in the ignition, of course, was Final Mistake Number Three.

Dean had alternated between furious curses involving Cliff's upcoming demise and earnest apologies to his baby for her violation by Gus and Cliff both.

Meanwhile, Sam phoned the police to report 'suspicious activity' down by the old farmhouse and spoke to the officers in between shooting strange looks at Dean and fidgeting with his chafed wrists.

They both knew that this was far from over.

* * *

Sam noticed Dean's distraction and couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. He'd only been trying to lighten the mood and, again, Sam had blown off the attempt.

He just couldn't shake loose the feeling that Dad was in danger. Well, more so than usual.

After escaping from the lunatics, the two of them had driven straight back to the motel they'd been surviving out of for the past month or so and started packing. Although it was nearly impossible to contact him at the best of times, Dean had tried to call Dad and ended up leaving a brief message. All he really needed to know was that they were driving down to meet him and go from there.

Which, of course, brings him to the present.

Leaving. Again.

Dean may be one authority figure away from dropping out of school, but Sam really cared about his education. Not only did he have a thirst for knowledge, but he genuinely enjoyed learning and he was remarkably intelligent. The ability to go through school and come out successful was a privilege to Sam, and the sole reason he hated their nomad wannabe lifestyle. Having to constantly catch up was beginning to drag on his conscience and fray his nerves, not to mention the metaphorical weight piled on his young shoulders.

Sometimes he felt like Atlas, burdened with the weight of his world and the knowledge that he alone is responsible for keeping it together. Never allowed to relieve himself of the weight unless one is willing to take it from him. But it works both ways, and that is the curse that Sam feels he bears. He may be offered a reprieve, but he would never allow another to take the burden, knowing what it feels like to shoulder so much, so he grins and bears it.

Sometimes he felt like Sisyphus, doomed to labor up a hill of increasing steepness with an ever growing sphere of burdens, forever failing to reach the top and relish in the sensation of triumph or the satisfaction of success.

Researching for hunts was never enough for Sam. He needed to put his knowledge to greater use, and he couldn't do that if he didn't get a proper education. Granted, an almost-fifteen-year-old usually didn't have to worry about such things, but the little column on the attendance sheet proclaiming him Sam _Winchester_ spoke volumes to those in the know.

The hours passing all blurred together in Sam's mind until his only sense of time came from Dean periodically switching out tapes. Metallica was replaced by Led Zeppelin was replaced by AC/DC and so on and so forth until the sun peeked over the horizon and they had to stop for gas.

The small gas station came equipped with a disease-ridden pay phone and a newspaper selection covering all the surrounding counties, and Sam didn't hesitate to purchase a copy of today's paper from the town they'd just escaped when he saw the headline.

He ran back to Dean, daring to let a small bit of hope escape its permanent lockdown in the recesses of his soul, and held up the newspaper, front page directed outward, towards his brother.

 **LOCAL GANG BEHIND BARS**  
 **Locals Cliff Jameson, Gus Howard, Reginald 'Red' Bundy, Tuck Miller, and Harley Donovan were arrested last night on account of breaking and entering at an abandoned farmhouse, property of local farmer Joe Hamilton. The small gang, the alleged leader of which is Cliff Jameson, was charged with possession of firearms without license and are currently being held on suspicion of credit and identity fraud. Sentencing is expected to be extended at the conclusion of the investigation and [cont. pg. 6]**

Dean, not trusting his first read through, scanned the article twice more before looking up into Sam's eyes. He cracked a genuine smile and gestured for Sam to get back in the car. Almost giddy with excitement and pride, Sam happily obliged and even consented to sing along with Dean as they meandered along this last stretch of road.

Without those thugs on their heels, maybe, just maybe, they could stay in this new town a while...

Of course, Dad was like Dean, stubborn to death and, Sam sometimes thought, even beyond that.

This was going to be an interesting reunion.

* * *

Dean was happy to see Sam so relaxed, especially after such a crazy-ass hunt. Which, it turns out, wasn't a hunt in the first place.

Dad should be done taking care of that wendigo by the time they rolled into town, and there have been no calls for help from fellow hunters or strangers alike. And without those goons on their tail...

Maybe, just maybe, Dad would let them settle down for a while...

Dean chanced a glance over at his brother, singing along to "Bohemian Rhapsody" like any other something-teen-year-old, and began to formulate a battle plan.

...for Sammy.

 **OPERATION HEY JUDE**  
 **Target:** John Winchester  
 **Objective:** convince Target to remain in one place long enough for Sasquatch to finish freshman year  
 **Expected Results:** some time spent the way Mom would have wanted us to live

This was going to be one hell of a reunion.

* * *

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah Sammy?"

"..."

"What? C'mon, spit it out."

"...you sing like a girl. Like, a drunk bartender on karaoke night..."

"Yeah? Well, you...look...like a drunk bartender...girl...Bitch."

"Jerk."


	2. Old Age Should Burn and Rave at Close

2\. Old Age Should Burn and Rave at Close of Day

* * *

 **DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all it entails most certainly do NOT belong to me. Carry on.**

* * *

Over the last fifteen years, John had acquired quite the collection of names from a wide cast of name-callers. The first he remembers is 'that poor man', gasped by little old Mrs. Hayfield as he clutched his sons to him and watched his life erupt into flames. Perhaps he should thank her, after all she started his collection.

Next was variants of 'poor bastard' and 'guy's wife was killed - house fire, you know?' from the guys down at the auto shop.

Of course, 'poor' had adorned his name for a long time after Mary's death, except when he used 'Dad'. Or simply 'John' from close friends.

It wasn't until 'Dad' became interspersed with 'Sir' that he realized his 'poor John Winchester' phase had ended, only to be replaced by 'thank you John Winchester' and 'fuck you John Winchester'.

Not to mention what strangers had to say about him. Every schoolteacher, neighbor, grocery store worker of every town they'd hopped and and skipped across had another name to offer up for him.

'Aloof', 'absent', 'neglectful', 'strict', 'hard to reach', 'out of town', 'Mr. Winchester', 'Dean's dad', 'Sam's dad', 'that nice young man down the street'...

And then the flip-side, clients who don't know they're clients, humanoid monsters, sometimes fellow hunters, and even friends.

'Asshole', 'bastard', 'monster', 'obsessed', 'insane', 'a danger to your children', 'murderer', 'idjit', 'lost', 'hopeless', 'reckless', 'on a downward spiral'...

Sometimes the names were just that: names. FBI, Homeland Security, Wildlife Services...you name it, John's been it.

'Hanes', 'Kreuger', 'Collins', 'McCartney', 'Armstrong', 'Jones', 'Leary', 'Carter', 'Dewey' all ran together like watercolor in his mind, and even more confusing was the endless stream of 'Jake', 'Eliot', 'David', 'Ray' that he had to keep straight and dutifully deny (on the off chance he hadn't been as 'silent vigilante' as he'd planned).

But of all his names, John Winchester's favorites were the ones given to him by his sons. Tucked safely away in his heart was a small pocket where names like 'hero', 'savior', and 'Daddy' still lived.

John didn't dwell on these thoughts for too long at a time - he's not exactly known for his emotional maturity, after all - but he did appreciate the reminder that he still had his sons.

Whom had just pulled up outside his motel room door.

* * *

Sam had been on the edge of his seat for the last few hours, energized by the knowledge that their kidnappers were behind bars and he had a fighting chance at finishing the school year out at one school.

After "Bohemian Rhapsody" had been "Stairway to Heaven" followed by "White Room" and then a strange collection of songs from a group called The Velvet Underground. The Balancing Act's "The Ballad of Art Snyder" was just petering out when their dad's motel came into view.

"I thought you were a classic rock junkie."

Dean looked over at Sam while The Rolling Stones embarked on a doom n' gloom painting spree.

"Of course I am. What d'you take me for, a _country_ fan?"

He shuddered at the very thought.

"'Balancing Act?' though Dean? 'Velvet Underground'?"

"Hey, we got some 'Zeppelin' and some 'Cream' in there. Gotta love Eric Clapton."

Sam just gave an Olympian eye-roll and decided to grab a metaphorical paintbrush himself. Dean smirked and joined him as the song began to fade, bad humming really the only thing left to do.

"Admit it, you like this tape, Sammy."

"I don't _dislike_ it...although you don't have 'House of the Rising Sun', 'Hotel California', 'Don't Fear the Reaper', 'Hey Jude'..."

"Wait. You-"

Dean shifted a little uncomfortably, confusing Sam.

"-you like...'Hey Jude'?"

Sam looked over, expecting a sarcastic smirk, and instead saw a surprisingly emotional Dean making a Herculean effort to burn twin holes in the windshield.

"Yeah...what, too 'girly' for you?"

Dean swallowed thickly.

"No, no. Just, ah...that was-that was Mom's favorite song. She'd sing it. You know, as a lullaby."

Now quite sobered up and not knowing how to process that tidbit of information, Sam made a rather intelligent response along the lines of :

"Oh."

He could feel Dean's eyes on the side of his head, but refused to look into them, sure, as always, that they belonged to a mother he couldn't remember.

"Hey now, I didn't tell you that to make you feel bad, Sammy. Mom'd be real happy you like it. Hell, it's one of _my_ favorites, too."

* * *

Dean looked at the side of Sam's head, wishing he could pull back - or, better yet, chop off - the shaggy curtain hiding Sam's eyes just by force of will.

He really hadn't meant to upset the kid. But sometimes he forgot that Sam's emotional side was his outer shell, the hunter hiding within. Dean was the exact opposite, and somehow their opposing makeups fit together seamlessly.

He waited nervously for a few moments, hoping his last comment would help to regain some of the spark he'd seen in Sam's eyes the past hundred miles or so.

"If you're such a Clapton fan, why don't you have 'While My Guitar Gently Weeps'?"

Dean was dragged roughly from his musings when he heard the snarky comment. Looking to the right, he noticed Sam had a teasing grin on his face and the light had returned to his eyes. Heaving a silent sigh of relief, Dean prepared a response that anywhere else would result in a swift slap upside the head, but Sam beat him to it.

"He was - what, eighteen? - when he played that solo for The Beatles, right? Don't tell me a _diehard fan_ wouldn't know that little factoid."

Oh, he was going down.

"Oh yeah? If you weren't an Eric Clapton fan, how the hell would you know that, hmm?"

Cue the smartass.

"Never said I wasn't a fan, Dean."

"Oooh, improper grammar...careful, Sammy. With our lifestyle, I don't think you can afford to live dangerously like that. Well, _more_ dangerously."

And that just so happened to bring them to their father's front door.

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

* * *

John was up and through the door before the boys had both feet on solid asphalt.

For the life of him he couldn't think as to why they had come to him rather than wait for him to return. It could be any number of reasons, but what really made John's blood run cold was the possibility that seemed most likely in that moment.

Sam knew how to drive, had known for years now as a precaution on particularly dangerous hunts, but would never even consider getting behind the wheel of Dean's baby unless directly ordered to do so, or - and John felt his breath hitch at this next thought - unless there was nobody else capable of driving.

Normally John wouldn't assume that Sam had taken it upon himself to haul ass all the way to his location, but the alternative meant Dean disobeying his direct orders, and that was the more unlikely - if not hopeful - option.

Of course, either line of thinking lead John to the conclusion that one or both of the boys was hurt, which is what compelled his quick exit and lapse in caution in the first place.

Therefore, when he saw not one, but _both_ of his sons exit the Impala under their own power, with Dean having been the driver after all and the two of them _laughing_ no less, John was equal parts relieved and furious.

And, well, John wasn't exactly known for his emotional maturity. Or his ability to handle others'.

"Well it's nice to see you two in such high spirits, but does _somebody_ want to explain to me just _what the hell_ you're doing _here_?"

It goes without saying that fury had quashed down relief quite easily and abruptly.

Both boys dropped their grins immediately. Spines straightened, shoulders thrown back, heads raised and eyes lowered. Their hands clasped behind their backs in sync as they chorused:

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Sam felt as though their good humor had been left in the Impala, and he would be absolutely correct in that assumption.

Dad was giving off an aura of contained fury, and with a jolt of dread Sam realized he must not have gotten their voicemail message. Oh, man, were they in for it.

Sam could tell from their dad's posture that he'd been worried, which was probably the reason he'd run out to meet them when they'd pulled in. Sam could've slapped himself - or Dean - for not thinking of what their unannounced arrival would look like to the ex-marine.

They could've been hurt. Shot, run down, clawed, bitten, burned, beaten...the list goes on, not to mention strictly supernatural wounds.

Beside him, Dean cleared his throat and began explaining what had happened to them in the last town. Sam wasn't really listening, too caught up in his own thoughts, but he did acknowledge the emphasis Dean put on the gang's search for Dad and the fact that they were now behind bars.

After that, their dad seemed to calm somewhat, and when Sam piped up about the message, the last bits of tension visibly dropped from his shoulders.

* * *

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding when he saw his dad relax. Jesus, that'd been a rough conversation, and out in broad daylight, too! They really needed to get inside before discussing anything else 'business' related.

"Uh...dad? Do you think maybe we should, ah, go inside?"

He'd never seen his father anything but cool and collected, so it took a hell of a lot of self control not to snort when Dad jumped before adopting a sheepish expression.

"Wha-oh, right. Yes. Sam, grab your duffels. Dean, get the weapons bags. Let's get inside."

Practically spinning on the spot (in a perfected, military about-face, no less), Dean quickly retrieved their stockpile and followed Sam into the small motel room.

Thankfully their father had thought to get a room with two beds, so there was a reasonable amount of space to go around.

"You two get settled. I'm going to head out for some extra groceries now that we've got three stomachs to feed. Locked and salted, boys, you know the drill."

It also meant there was a small kitchen table complete with chairs, ready for use as a familial conversation spot or interrogation central.

Dean had a feeling he knew which would be in use once he put Operation Hey Jude into action. Which, by the expression on Sammy's face, looked to be in about three, two...

His face faltered.

...one...

And, sighing, Sam Winchester, master of lethal strength sass, weirder of sarcasm, master of rebellion...turned his back and began unpacking.

...zero?

Dean stared incredulously at his little brother's back, trying desperately to put his universe back together.

"Wh-"

The question had been on the tip of his tongue when he noticed something.

There were only two Winchesters in the room.

Right. Dad had gone to get food. No use starting an argument when the target isn't present.

So Dean did what anybody else would do in his predicament.

* * *

 _THUMP_

"Dean!"

"What? You want the remote, you gotta be fas-"

 _CRASH_

"Dammit Sammy!"

"You asked for it! MTV is going down the drain, man."

"Hey! MTV is great! It used to be all music videos and-"

"Yeah. _Used_ to be."

"Why you little-"

 _BANG_

"I'm thinking a little educational telev-"

 _THWACK_

 _SMASH_

 _Creeeeaaaak_

"Oh, sh-Dean!"

 _CRACK_

 _FWUMP_

"Ha! Take that, freakin' 'educational television'...more like the torture channel..."

"Dean, the couch!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah...ooh! Godzilla vs. Mothra! Solid gold, baby."

"I hate you."

"Love you too, you remake-loving freak."


	3. Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Ligh

3\. Rage, Rage Against the Dying of the Light

* * *

 **DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all it entails most certainly do NOT belong to me. Carry on.**

* * *

 _Little Sammy peaked around a pew, watching for any signs of movement in the small church. He felt confident that he hadn't been tracked to his current location, and his pursuer was nowhere in sight, but the feeling of being watched just wouldn't go away._

 _He should've tried that new stealth roll Dean had taught him, but he'd heard footsteps coming down the corridor and abandoned that plan in favor of hiding among the rows of benches. Cursing himself for his panicky instincts, Sammy gave the altar area one more sweeping gaze and turned his attention to the ceiling._

 _In the candle-lit room, he watched flickers of soft golden yellow and orange dance across the surface above him. There was a uniformity there, a certain pattern of the light that remained unbroken so long as the room maintained its stillness. What Sammy was interested in were the hiccups that indicated a change in airflow, or perhaps a shadow where something had passed in front of a candle flame._

 _Just as he was beginning to lose feeling in his toes - he had to hold absolutely still, just like the room, or he would disturb the flicker himself - Sammy's eyes latched onto a section of ceiling that hadn't flared when it was meant to. He held his breath, anticipating another fluctuation, and felt his heart stutter when a shadow flashed briefly across the golden canvas, swooping toward his hiding place._

 _Sammy silently rolled onto his stomach and used the tips of his fingers to push gingerly off the floor. He had just succeeded in gathering his feet underneath him when he was startled from behind - the opposite direction from the shadow's origin._

 _"Gotcha, Sammy."_

 _Sammy sighed and straightened, brushing himself off as he turned to the figure standing at the end of his row._

 _"How'd you do that? I saw your shadow from over there and-"_

 _Sammy shifted awkwardly._

 _"-and I guess I didn't keep my guard up in any other direction. I thought I was getting better at this, but I'm still not as good as Dean!"_

 _"Now hold on there Sammy. First of all, your brother is four years older than you, so don't you think for a minute you're not as good as he was at your age. I'd even say you're better."_

 _"But-"_

 _"Second," the figure spoke over Sammy's protests, "you are getting better. You're more cautious, you're more vigilant, and you're thinking more logically. It may not seem like it, but you're very adept at keeping a level head in situations that would send most people into hysterics. You boys..."_

 _The silhouette heaved a long-suffering sigh and stepped further into the candlelight._

 _"...you're growing up too fast, the both of you. Your father is passionate, and I commend him for that, but sometimes I wish he'd realize the kind of life he's preparing you for. Endless war, years of carnage and lies and running from the law - it's no life for anyone, let alone children."_

 _Sammy was torn. On the one hand, he regarded their lifestyle and the reason for it to be well worth the occasional flesh wound or loss of sleep, as long as a life was saved in the end. On the other hand, he desperately wanted to be normal, live in a house, go to one school, not have to bear the weight of the world on his shoulders all the time._

 _"I don't know..."_

 _"Sam, you can choose how to live your life. It's yours, nobody can claim ownership of it or influence over it unless you let them. If you want to become a hunter, do what you need to do to become a hunter. If you want to go to school, then do what you need to do to gain a fulfilling education. Do what feels right, Sam, and not what anybody else tells you should feel right."_

 _The mini-lecture was said with such force that Sammy actually stood speechless for a moment before lowering his gaze to his scuffed up Chucks. After some silent internal battle with himself, he finally lifted his head and looked straight into the familiar eyes._

 _"You really think so, Pastor Jim?"_

 _Jim smiled sadly at the all-too-common expression on little ten-year-old Sammy Winchester's face. The desperate hope in his eyes was almost buried by defeated resignation and a countenance so serious it would've looked out of place on a middle aged businessman._

 _"Yes, Sam, I really do."_

* * *

Sam woke from his dream in complete and utter confusion.

Not only had he just had a remarkably realistic dream detailing an actual memory of his, but he also found himself in the unusual position of violating the personal space of Dean's Adam's apple.

Apparently at some point in the night, Dean had found it necessary to grasp onto Sam like he was a teddy bear and hadn't found a reason to let him go as of yet. What would've resulted in a pair of red-faced, stuttering brothers in any other circumstance actually made Sam relax into his brother's tight grip. He was lucky to have Dean, and that dream proved how much Sam relied on him. Right then, he was perfectly content to soak in the reassurance that Dean was still there, still watching out for him.

And if that meant pretending to be asleep when Dean woke up so as to prevent excessive embarrassment, then so be it.

* * *

By the time Dean finally woke up, Sam had surpassed restlessness and regressed into a sort of lazy stupor that seemed determined to drag him back under the veil of sleep. Just as he'd decided to give in (only for a minute or so...), Dean gave an almighty yawn that caused his chin to tap the top of Sam's shaggy head.

He gave Dean a few minutes to fully wake up and shift their positions before rolling over, and another minute before Dean's weight disappeared from the bed and he feigned his own awakening.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!"

A quick glance told Sam he must have fallen asleep for real, because Dean was already dressed and choking down a cup of motel coffee that looked like it came from the Black Lagoon.

"What...is that?"

Dean gave the offending drink a dirty look before holding it out to Sam sarcastically.

"Why, you wanna swig? Go on, it'll wake ya right up, and probably turn you into an X-Men reject in the process. It's a win-win, really."

"Dean, where's dad?"

The lopsided smirk slid right off Dean's face and into the mug of sludge as he took another sip. Shuddering and once again looking distastefully at the biohazard, Dean predictably changed the subject.

"I think I made it mad. Is coffee supposed to sound like this?"

Sam ignored the grotesque sound of gelatinous coffee suction to give Dean a patented 'deadpan stare'.

"Dean."

"I dunno Sam! Don't give me that look, I really don't. He didn't tell me where he was going, alright? Took his journal and everything, so I've got no idea what he was doing. My best guess? He's researching the Gangrene Gang to figure out why they're callin' for his head on a platter."

He'd been wildly gesturing with his hands as he ranted, and it was obvious that Dad's disappearance was bothering him just as much as it was Sam. So Sam, being the good little brother that he was, decided to go easy on him.

"'Gangrene Gang'? You realize gangrene is the death or decomposition of soft body tissue, usually caused by lack of circulation."

"It's not some psycho-thing-ia?"

Cue exasperated sigh.

* * *

The truth was, Dean _did_ know what his dad was up to. He hadn't been told, of course, but he'd be willing to bet his favorite Zeppelin tape that Dad was on his way back to the town he and Sam had just vacated. As much as he wanted to know what those psychos had against their dad, Dean was just glad he and Sammy had gotten the hell out of Dodge - literally, as it turns out - and wanted to _stay_ the hell out.

He'd decided not to tell any of this to Sam, though. What's the point of getting him all pissed and worried now? He'd just sit and let it stew all day until Dad got back. Plus, there was something else bothering him that Dean intended to find out. He'd spent enough nights bunking with Sam to know when he was awake or not. As finely tuned as he was to the gangly moose that was Sam, Dean had immediately woken up when he'd felt Sam shift in his sleep and had discretely listened as his breathing quickened, pulling the distressed teen into a bear hug before his dreams ripped him from his slumber.

He knew a nightmare when he saw one, and he knew a pensive Sam when he saw one, so Dean put two and two together and knew he'd have to get Sam to tell him his dream one way or another.

* * *

"So what's really eatin' at ya?"

Sam jolted slightly in surprise to Dean's question. Had he really been that obvious? He couldn't possibly know about the dream...

"Somethin' to do with that dream you had last night?"

Well, damn.

"What? What dream? I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on, Sammy. You woke up all confused this morning and pretended to be asleep until I woke up and you fell asleep for real. You wouldn't've stayed there if something hadn't freaked you out even a little."

Sam sighed. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately. Or was that the dream...?

"Alright, yeah, I had a dream...but it wasn't like a regular old 'standing in front of the class in your underwear' dream."

"Yeah? Clowns or midgets?"

"Dean, seriously, this was different. It-it was a...memory. It made me think, that's all."

Dean, surprisingly out-of-character, looked thoughtful, if not a bit concerned.

"What memory? Something bad, like a hunt gone to hell? Or when we were kids? Was it the crazy kidnapping hunter gang? You gotta tell me these things, Sammy, so I can help you!"

"Dean."

"I mean, what if you start getting nightmares, or worse? I can't shoot a dream, can't kill a memory...well, maybe, with a few dozen-"

"Dean! Stop - just, stop. It wasn't bad and it wasn't recent."

Dean was getting worked up into a frenzy by this point.

"Then what the hell was it, Sam?!"

Sam grabbed Dean's hands as they flew past in an admittedly impressive impersonation of a rabid bat.

"Well, if you'd _calm down_ , maybe I'll get the chance to tell you."

A few deep breaths later and Dean was sitting on his hands, ready to listen.

"It was a few years ago. You know, when I was ten and you were fourteen, and Dad left me with Pastor Jim while you helped Bobby with his cars and Dad was off working a group job?"

"Yeah, I remember. Neither of us was very excited about that arrangement, huh? Bobby wasn't too happy with Dad even then."

"Neither was Pastor Jim, apparently. Huh. Well anyway, we were doing stealth and capture training-"

"Hide-and-seek."

"Whatever, Dean. I was hiding behind one of the pews and I decided to use that trick you taught me, with the ceilings in candle-lit rooms?"

"I remember, I taught you that in Bobby's attic a few weeks before we split up."

"Right. So I was using that to try and see if Pastor Jim was in the room somewhere, and I saw a shadow. I started to get up into a crouch so I could sneak away from it, but he was in the exact opposite direction, right behind me."

"Little outta practice, were we?"

"I was ten, Dean."

"Right, right, carry on."

"Okay, so I was disappointed because I didn't think I was getting any better, and Jim was doing his whole 'look at the big picture' thing to make me feel better, and he just looked kinda...defeated, you know? He said we grew up too fast, that Dad was preparing us for a life of violence and lies."

"Wait just a minute-"

"Dean, he was worried. We were just kids, man."

"That still doesn't give him the right to judge Dad like that."

"That's not what he meant, Dean. He always respected dad - still does - but he's like family. Of course he'd be concerned for us. Look at Bobby, he's practically a second father to us, but he and Dad had that falling out."

"Yeah, okay. I guess I can understand that."

"Good, because I'm not going to sit here and argue family dynamics with you right now. He told me...he told me nobody else had control over my life but me. I could do whatever I wanted. If I want to be a hunter? Do it. If I want to go to school or join the army or start a band or whatever? Do it. He seemed so determined to make me understand that, I just-I didn't believe him right away, you know? Everything was always 'training' and 'hunting' and 'moving' and I got so used to it that I didn't realize we shouldn't have had to be used to it...at least not when compared to most other kids our age."

Silence from across the table.

"That was the first time somebody'd ever said that to me. I realized that I _could_ make my own decisions. That's why I fight every move, Dean. I like school, sometimes I just want to stay at the same one. I'd really like to finish a year at one school, but that probably won't happen."

Dean shifted a bit and looked away. He had a strange expression on his face, but Sam didn't take the time to properly read it before continuing.

"That's when I started going by Sam more, too. It was like a...transition...for me. From hunting because I had to to because I wanted to. That was a huge difference to me. Still is."

There was a tense moment while the two brothers contemplated what they'd just heard and/or said. It wasn't Sam that broke the long silence, nor was it Dean.

It was the sound of John Winchester's sleek black truck pulling up in front of their shabby motel room.

* * *

"Why do you think you remembered that? Specifically?"

"Dunno. Maybe it was just random."

"Come on, Sam, you wouldn't've had such a weirdly detailed dream if you didn't have something on your mind."

"It's nothing, Dean."

"What's nothing?"

"Just drop it, okay? It doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't."

"FINE! I just want a break! We've moved six times in the past four months, I've had to restart geometry three times in three different schools, and we were just kidnapped by raving lunatics who want to filet our father! I just want to stay in one place, in a house, long enough to finish out a school year at _one_ school. Is that too much to ask?"

"Sammy, I-"

"No, never mind. Forget it, I-I'm sorry. That's never gonna happen and I should be grateful for what we _do_ have, just-I'm sorry. Forget I ever said anything."

 _SLAM_

"...I think it's time to bring you in on Operation: Hey Jude."

"..."

 _SHUFFLE_

"What?"

 _SCRAPE_

"How much of that tar did you drink?"

 _CREEEAAAK_

"...shut up...Bitch."

"Whatever you say, Jerk."

 _CLICK_

"What'd I miss?"


	4. Though Wise Men at Their End Know Dark

4\. Though Wise Men at Their End Know Dark is Right

* * *

 **DISCLAIMER: Supernatural and all it entails most certainly do NOT belong to me. Carry on.**

* * *

William Anthony Harvelle hadn't gone by anything other than "Bill" since he was fourteen.

On his fourteenth birthday, William Anthony Harvelle was pulled out of his first day of high school. He was told to "please come with us, once we get ahold of your father he'll meet us at the hospital" by the police officers in the principal's office.

William Anthony Harvelle had disregarded the red-and-blue-and-red-and-blue journey altogether and didn't remember all that much of the rest of his day as a newly christened freshman beyond the cold metal doors of the hospital.

Abrupt steering through back hallways, a large sign with letters black as pitch proclaiming MORGUE, the pure white sheet contrasting against red-and-blue-and-red-and-blue, bad coffee and hard plastic and time. Time was most prominent in his memory - time spent waiting, time _wasted_ waiting for the man.

Eyes closed, red-and-blue flashing and twisting into elaborate formations in the dark, William Anthony Harvelle made a promise. To himself. To his sister lying a sign and a sheet away. To the creator of the red-and-blue marring her features. And to his father, William Anthony Harvelle, Sr.

Bill Harvelle did not speak to his father on his fourteenth birthday. He stared balefully, distrustingly, at William when he arrived six hours later.

Eventually, he would learn the truth of his sister's untimely demise: the eight-about-to-turn-nine-year-old Joanna had been lured off the playground at school by a shapeshifter pretending to be William. She'd been found twenty yards or so into the surrounding woods, near the entrance to a series of deep caves. Local authorities ruled it a bear attack.

By his sixteenth birthday, Bill was privy to the dark and bloody layer beneath the surface of his reality. At seventeen, he learned of the shapeshifter. Eighteen brought both the whole truth of Joanna's death and Bill's impromptu transformation into a hunter of the supernatural.

Before he knew it, six years had passed and Bill was no closer to pinning down this specific son of a bitch than the day it had torn his already fragile family to shreds. Now a sturdy twenty-three, Bill was more than capable of taking down his fair share of nasties on his conquest.

On the ten-year anniversary of Joanna's murder, Bill was passing through Nebraska. Intent on his search and more despondent than usual, he decided on a whim to stop at the next bar he came across. He didn't really believe even a gallon of whiskey could put a dent in his tangled up emotional mess, but there's something to be said for trying.

Ten long, barren miles later and Bill had begun to give up what little hope he had left when he saw the faint glow of artificial luminescence on the horizon. A small, shabby building proclaiming itself the "Roadhouse" sat off to the side, a small collection of equally as rundown cars circling the entrance.

Bill took a seat at the bar, opened his mouth to order as he looked up to lock eyes with the bartender, and never left.

Another two years, several hunts, and a wedding gone by, and Bill had officially become owner and proprietor of "Harvelle's Roudhouse" - in partnership with Ellen, of course. A hub of hunter activity, the Roadhouse quickly became a safe haven of sorts for those in need of information, recuperation, or (most often in their profession) intoxication.

News of his father's passing circulated through the supernatural grapevine and reached Nebraska rather quickly. Bill had been busy sharpening his favorite knife when a fellow hunter stumbled in with condolences spilling freely from his mouth. Another shapeshifter, the same one most likely, had tracked and brutally killed his father in a sick reversal of the typical hunter/monster relationship. What surprised Bill, more than the reality of his father's death, was that he felt genuine emotional pain because of it. Having put William behind him years ago, Bill had himself convinced that all ties had been severed, cleanly broken both physically and emotionally.

This was not the case.

At this point in his life, with Ellen expecting and the prospect of fatherhood all too real, Bill realized that he was indeed proud to bear his father's name. Perfect he may not have been, but loving and hardworking had always been an integral part of William Anthony Harvelle, Sr.'s personality, and he wanted to remember those parts of his father. He wanted his future son or daughter to value family, love unconditionally, take pride in his/her heritage.

Glancing down at the worn, soft leather of the handle in his hand, Bill simultaneously pulled out a Swiss Army knife and placed the handle of his hunting knife flat against the countertop. He worked in long, straight slices - over and over to make permanent his new promise to his father, to his family, and to himself.

In April of 1985, the hunting Harvelles welcomed a baby girl into the world. They named her Joanna.

And Bill kept his hunting knife close at hand, waiting for the day he could tell her all about _W.A.H._ and fulfill his promise.

* * *

 **May 16, 1995**  
Bill Harvelle sat on the hood of John Winchester's black-as-night Impala, twirling his knife back and forth. The blade gleamed in the fading twilight and thin scratches stood out on the handle, pale against the aged leather. Twirling it had become a habit of his in recent years, a nervous action that betrayed his usually emotionless exterior, but tonight it was also the result of excited anticipation.

Finally, after twenty-plus years of searching, he and John had tracked down the shapeshifter, right back at the scene of the original crime.

Considering the thing's strange affinity for members of his family, Bill demanded to be used as bait. Besides the logical reason for doing so, he rather hoped he'd get the chance to gut it himself once John had secured it.

His family, his rules.

John respected that; if they had been closing in on the demon that killed Mary, Bill would have respected whatever decisions John made, so John returned the favor.

Bill didn't normally work with John - he had a small group of hunter friends he normally met up with - but this wasn't exactly a normal, run-of-the-mill hunt. This bastard had a sick fascination with his family, and may demons strike him where he stands before he lets it get ahold of Ellen or little Jo. John Winchester was one of the best, if not _the_ best, and nothing less would do.

John walked up, interrupting Bill's darkening thoughts.

"You sure you're ready for this, Bill?"

A deep, weary sigh.

"...I've been ready from the day I turned fourteen and had to walk into that morgue alone."

He could feel John's gaze boring into the side of his head, but refused to meet it. Finally the scrutinizing heat disappeared.

"Well alright then."

* * *

The drive itself took less than the twenty minutes he'd remembered, but Bill felt as though he'd been locked inside the classic car for about twenty years. The only consolation, and a poor one at that, was the lack of need to return to his childhood home. The shapeshifter had been consistent in its place of attack: the patch of woods surrounding the elementary school playground.

Of course, after all this time, the forest had been pushed back. The caves where Joanna had been killed were now only a few yards from the manmade tree line, and it was only a matter of time before the shapeshifter was forced to move or risk detection.

Hence their deadline.

Bill was once again pulled from his memories, this time by the cut of the engine and a slamming door. Slowly - he was beginning to feel all those hunts in his back and hips - Bill dragged himself out of the Impala and double checked the security of his knife in its holster.

He stopped John as the slightly older hunter made for the woods.

"John...if this doesn't go the way we want...just, make sure you get this back to my little girl, alright?"

The silver was cool and smooth under his fingertips as he ghosted over the blade, drawing John's eyes to the faded leather of the handle and its hand-carved promise.

"I know you'll tell Ellen what happened, but...this knife..."

Bill flicked his eyes up in surprise as he felt a strong hand clutch his shoulder. John was peering into his eyes with a softness rarely seen in the ex-marine.

"Bill, I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. Or-" he added when Bill's eyebrow rose accusingly, "-to your family. You know that. But I'll be damned and dragged to hell before I leave you behind."

Bill swallowed dryly.

"Yeah, I-I know. But John, if it comes to it-"

"It won't."

"If it comes to it," he pinned John with a determined glare, "you get yourself out. This is _my_ problem, you got yours. Both of us don't need to be leaving anybody behind."

A low blow, he knew, but sometimes he thought if somebody didn't remind John he had his boys to look out for, he'd lose himself completely in his obsession over Mary and her murder.

He spared a moment of thought for his hunting buddies, maybe he should mention them to John on the off chance...No. Ellen would fill them in if something were to happen, Cliff and Gus at least came around often enough that she wouldn't have to worry about reaching them.

And when his thoughts returned to the man in front of him, he noticed with a sad sort of satisfaction that John had been the first to look away.

* * *

The plan was simple enough.

Creatures like the shapeshifter often thought in complexities, acting out long, intricate schemes that only served to ensnare the hunter in the end, regardless of the monster's survival or demise. They didn't have it in them to think on a more basic level, so plans without bells and whistles seemed to work the best.

Bill would approach the cave entrance, taunting the shifter in waves of apparently alcohol-induced grief and fury. The chameleonic monster would most likely jump at the chance to cut the Harvelle family down one member, at which point John would jump down from his perch on top of the cave's roof, effectively cutting off the creature from home base and trapping it between two skilled, angry, and vengeful hunters.

Besides his hunting knife, Bill was armed with a half-dozen flares and a few boxes of matches, not to mention the single flare gun tucked into the waistband of his jeans. Seeing as there were only two, and John had the other one (and the better chance of getting the drop on the sonofabitch), Bill was going to keep that as a last resort. His job was to distract, not shoot blindly.

He saw John out of the corner of his eye, place taken atop the large boulders, and mentally shook himself.

He was about to exact revenge for his family's murders. For poor, sweet Joanna, who loved horses and played soccer and could out-sass teenagers. For his father, a man aged beyond his years and driven by a grief that Bill could now identify with.

Bill took strength from their memories and, lowering himself into a lazy slouch, marched upon the enemy with fire in his eyes.

* * *

"Hey! HEY! You bastard, you-you..."

 _SLOSH_

"...guh...killed them! You don' deserve-to-live you...GET OUT HERE!"

 _RUSTLE_

 _THUD_

"Ah, shit...get-get out 'ere ya coward! Freakin'...freak-a-nature! I'll kill ya, I'll-I'll kill-you-DEAD!"

 _SCRAPE_

 _SNICK_

 _WHOOSH_

"How d'ya like that, huh? How-*hic*-d'you like me now? HUH?"

 _Pat, pat, pat..._

 _CRASH_

"She was EIGHT you sick-why us? WHY ME? Why me? Why..."

 _THUMP_

"BILL!"

 _SQUELCH_

"BILL! Goddamnit-Bill! BILL! DOWN!"

 _CRACK_

 _FWOOM_

"BILL!"

 _SNAP_

"No! You-get-get back-oh shit, oh-Bill! It's-"

 _RIP_

 _SPLAT_

 _Pat, pat, pat..._

"Damnit! Just-ah, Bill...I-Bill? Come on, stay with me here...think of Ellen...come o...nk...Bi...!"

 _Wheeze_

 _Rattle_

"...Jo!"

 _GASP_

"...John...take-it..."

 _Click_

 _Shink_

 _THUNK_

"No! Bill, you give it to her yourself...I-I'm sorry Bill, it-I-"

 _FUMBLE_

 _Rasp_

"...you-gah!-tell her...John. You...tell her..."

 _Sigh_

 _HUFF_

 _Sniff_

"I'll tell her, Bill. I'll tell her..."


End file.
